


A More Nourishing Love

by artenon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Catharsis, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Other, Past Abuse, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22285654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artenon/pseuds/artenon
Summary: Aziraphale doesn’t even hear the words Crowley is saying anymore, only the harsh cadence of his voice overlaid with memories of reprimands. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need the words to understand the sentiment.He failed to carry out his orders. He wasn’t up to standard. He fucked up.(Or: Crowley's treatment of his plants recalls bad memories for Aziraphale.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 96
Kudos: 790





	A More Nourishing Love

**Author's Note:**

> a fill for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1676633#cmt1676633) prompt on the kink meme, essentially asking to see the ramifications crowley's very vocal plant abuse has on aziraphale
> 
> a lot of crying happens in this fic but i promise they're still so so soft
> 
> many, many thanks to [sarah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurea) and [pho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessPhoenix) for beta'ing!!

Aziraphale is sitting in Crowley’s dimly-lit lounge. Aziraphale is standing in the cold clean halls of Heaven.

Crowley is shouting at his plants. Aziraphale’s superiors are shouting at him.

Aziraphale doesn’t even hear the words Crowley is saying anymore, only the harsh cadence of his voice overlayed with memories of reprimands. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t need the words to understand the sentiment.

He failed to carry out his orders. He wasn’t up to standard. He fucked up.

And maybe it’s all right still, maybe he hasn’t crossed the line yet, but it’s only a matter of time. They won’t indulge his failures forever, and sooner or later he’ll reach the threshold of their mercy—of Her mercy.

He gulps in a breath, dragging it past the block in his throat, and tries to pull himself back to the present. He’s not in Heaven. He’s in Crowley’s flat. They’re going out to lunch—a date, and it still gives Aziraphale a little thrill in his stomach to officially be able to call it that, to know that this is something they can openly acknowledge, both to themselves and to each other.

Aziraphale came to meet Crowley and Crowley said he needed to water his plants before they left. Aziraphale is not in Heaven and Crowley is just being overdramatic. Nothing is wrong. Crowley will finish up his rounds and rejoin Aziraphale to find nothing amiss.

He takes another breath, steadier. Crowley’s voice comes into focus along with the cold clean walls of his flat.

“It’s too late. You’ve disappointed me.”

The words snatch the breath right back out from Aziraphale’s lungs. Even when he’s not shouting, Crowley’s voice is clear and cutting, and Aziraphale hunches over on the couch, covering his ears and twisting his fingers into his short curls of hair. The dull pain isn’t nearly enough to distract from the pressure building behind his eyes, the burning in his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The garbage disposal whirs, and Aziraphale flinches. And then he sits up straight, because that sound means Crowley will be done soon. Aziraphale breathes in deep and lets it out slow. He wipes the corners of his eyes with his fingertips, then folds his hands neatly in his lap. He tries for a smile.

There, see? He’s just fine.

The whirring stops.

“You know I don’t tolerate failure,” Crowley snarls from the next room over. “And you. Be grateful it’s not you I’m making an example of. You’d best shape up or you’ll soon be joining your friend.”

Aziraphale grinds his teeth together. He takes another deep breath and ignores the way his throat quivers through it.

He’s fine.

There’s the clattering of an empty pot tossed carelessly aside, then Crowley strides into the lounge.

“Let them see you’re in a good mood one time and they start getting ideas,” Crowley says. He punctuates the statement with a theatrical sigh.

Aziraphale tries to smile. He’s not sure how well he succeeds.

“Have you perhaps considered treating your plants more… kindly?” He ignores the way each syllable chafes his throat. Frankly, he’s amazed he manages to keep any waver out of his voice at all.

Crowley arches an eyebrow at him. “Why would I do that?”

“Well, the poor things are terrified,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley just snorts. “Good. I’m keeping ‘em in line. I heard it on the radio, you know. Talking to plants encourages them to grow better.”

“So you should _encourage_ them, surely, not threaten.”

“Same thing, innit? End result’s the same, anyway.”

Aziraphale blinks hard. The lump in his throat has grown so large, he’s choking on it. He can hardly breathe, and swallowing is agony. He knows Crowley is probably right, but the thought makes him feel sick. “Surely they’re doing their best.”

“Hey, you wanna get your own plants and coddle them, see how they turn out, be my guest. As for me, I’ll stick to what’s working.” Crowley jabs his thumb in the direction of his plant room. “If the best these guys can do is yellowed leaves, they don’t deserve a place in my flat.”

“No,” Aziraphale whispers, knotting his fingers tightly together in his lap. “I suppose not.”

Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and angles his body away. They’re both quiet for a moment, Aziraphale unable to say anything and Crowley apparently unwilling. Then Crowley moves to pick up his sunglasses from his desk. He doesn’t look at Aziraphale as he slips them on.

Crowley almost never wears his sunglasses when they’re alone anymore. Aziraphale knows they’re about to go out, but something about seeing him put them on right now drags his heart into his stomach.

“Well, are you ready to go?” Crowley pauses. “Did we pick a place?”

“N-not yet,” Aziraphale says, and clears his throat. Reason tells him he should let the matter drop. Crowley isn’t comfortable talking about it and neither is Aziraphale, really. Only… “Only, I do wish you would be gentler with your plants, dear.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Crowley’s snaps, rounding on him, eyebrows bunched angrily against the rims of his impenetrable glasses, “I don’t get on you for the atrocious state you keep your bookshop in, don’t you get on me for how I treat _my_ things!”

Aziraphale blinks rapidly, although he thinks nothing will be able to hold back his tears this time. And though he thought the lump in his throat couldn’t get any bigger, still it swells, and he draws a wheezy breath.

“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “you’re right, of course you’re right, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The hard lines on Crowley’s face slacken into shock. “A—wait, shit, what’s wrong?”

Crowley takes a step towards him, hands raised falteringly, and Aziraphale gasps and hiccups and wipes away the onslaught of tears with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ —”

“Hey, hey…” Crowley steps closer. Before his outstretched hand can reach Aziraphale, Aziraphale curls inward, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he says. “Oh, please don’t… don’t touch me.”

Crowley drops his hand like it’s been slapped away and staggers several paces back. “What’s wrong? This isn’t like you.”

Aziraphale wants to laugh, which somehow translates into him crying harder. He buries his face in his hands. Of course this isn’t like him. He’s never let Crowley see him like this because he knows Crowley wouldn’t like him like this. Crowley likes _just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing_ Aziraphale, not _cries when he’s done something wrong_ Aziraphale.

He needs to stop. He needs to _stop crying_.

“I know,” he moans. “I know, I’m sorry, this isn’t like me, I’m not like this, I’m better than this.”

He can be better than this, he swears, he swears.

He draws in several wet, gasping breaths. He’s better than this.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. He can come down from this. He could always hold it together when he was reprimanded in Heaven. Only a few times did he break down once he was safely alone back in his bookshop, and never for long. He can get it back together now.

He exhales slowly. He’s fine. He’s fine.

He looks up. Crowley’s sunglasses are off again. He’s also standing several feet away and staring at Aziraphale with wide eyes, like he can’t even recognize him anymore.

Shame curdles in Aziraphale’s stomach. Somehow, he plasters a smile on.

“I’m fine,” he says. His eyes prickle—it feels as if there’s only a fragile barrier holding the tears at bay—but he’s not crying. He’s fine. “I’m sorry, that won’t happen again.”

“Tha—wh—j—” Crowley sputters. “Aziraphale.”

“Well, shall we get going?” Aziraphale rises from the couch. He wipes his tear-damp hands on his waistcoat and ignores the way his breathing is picking up again. “It’s getting late, there’s this lovely café and I’m afraid they won’t be serving the lunch menu if we tarry much longer.”

He has no idea what time it is in actuality, but he is desperate to leave. Leave the flat, the plants, this conversation.

“Stop,” Crowley says. “What just happened?”

“Honestly, it’s really not important—”

“You having a breakdown out of nowhere is pretty fucking important to me,” Crowley snaps, stepping forward.

Aziraphale flinches. The fragile barrier shatters. “I’m sorry!” he cries. “I won’t—” He won’t what? Do it again? Too late for that. He struggles to swallow, hiding his face in his hands. “I’ll be better, I’ll be good. Don’t be mad…”

Everything goes out of focus, blurring once more into dread and panic. He’s hounded by echoes of Crowley’s ferocious disapproval, and it takes a minute to realize that the only sound actually present is his own sobbing. It takes another minute to collect himself—and even then, he’s not put together by any means.

When he’s at least transitioned from harsh sobs and wheezing gasps to hitching breaths and quiet tears, he looks up. Crowley stands petrified, backed up several paces more from where Aziraphale saw him last, back flush to the wall. His yellow irises have flooded out the whites of his eyes.

Aziraphale’s legs feel unsteady. He drops back down onto the couch.

Crowley doesn’t say anything. Waiting, Aziraphale realizes, for him to make the first move. Probably afraid of setting him off again.

Or perhaps he just doesn’t know what to say to this stranger. That’s fair. Aziraphale wouldn’t know what to say to himself either.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale says, painfully aware of how his voice sounds flat and dull instead of reassuring. “You can come closer.”

Crowley does, though cautiously. He keeps his arms stiff at his sides.

“I’m sorry, I know that was terribly unlike me,” Aziraphale says. He breathes in. Out. “I’m—well, I’m sorry for judging how you treat your plants. It wasn’t my place. And if the way I maintain my bookshop truly bothers you, I can change it.”

“Waitwaitwaitwait,” Crowley says. He shuffles a bit closer. Though he remains out of arm’s reach, he’s close enough now that Aziraphale can see how his eyes glisten, as if he is close to tears himself. “That can’t be it, though. That doesn’t seem like enough to cry over.”

Aziraphale blinks rapidly. “I upset you,” he says. His breaths come a little faster, but he doesn’t cry. He refuses to cry again.

“We argue all the time,” Crowley says. “It’s never mattered before.” He hesitates. “Has it mattered before?”

Aziraphale struggles to think. It’s true, he and Crowley have butted heads plenty. The reasons for their arguments are more often than not quite petty. Aziraphale’s never held any of them against Crowley, and… he thinks Crowley’s never held any of them against him, either. Even their worst fights resolve eventually. After everything they’ve been through, it’s silly to think that this altercation would be the dealbreaker.

And yet that’s exactly what Aziraphale is afraid of.

“Sometimes it matters,” he says, thinking of holy water and favors refused; thinking of books of prophecy and secrets kept.

Crowley opens his mouth.

“But you’re right, it usually doesn’t,” Aziraphale concedes. “I know it was silly of me to get so upset. I was just… recalling some unpleasant memories.”

“Heaven,” Crowley says flatly.

Aziraphale swallows. He twitches his shoulders and he hopes it’s enough of a response. He stares at his hands, twisting his fingers in his lap.

“I’ll fucking kill—” Crowley breaks off with an exaggerated breath. When he speaks again, his voice is markedly calmer. “You know you’re not beholden to them anymore. Who cares if you don’t meet their ridiculous standards?”

Aziraphale shoots his head up. “And what about you?” he demands. “What are you going to do when I don’t live up to your standards? Are you going to dispose of me like—” He chokes and breaks off.

Crowley looks stricken. “Like I do my plants,” he finishes in a horrified whisper.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” Aziraphale says, and he doesn’t look down, but he can’t quite meet Crowley’s gaze either. “I’m trying, I’m doing my best, but I’ve never been good at…”

“Good at what?” Crowley’s hands are tight fists at his sides.

“Good at… being,” Aziraphale says. “I’m not a good angel and I’ve certainly not always been a good friend. I want to be good. To you, especially. But I don’t know how.”

Crowley shakes his head. “I’ve never known anyone better than you. There’s nothing you have to change. You’re… you’re perfect, angel.” He looks plaintively at Aziraphale. “I’m sorry my shouting at my plants hurt you. And I’m sorry I got defensive about it. I guess… I never really realized what I was doing.”

“Playing at being a cruel god to your plants?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley shuffles forward the last few steps so that he’s right in front of the couch. He looks so small, his arms wrapped around himself, eyes wide and still gleaming with unshed tears.

“Can I…?” Crowley nods to the space beside Aziraphale, and when Aziraphale nods in return, he sinks onto the cushion.

He leaves a careful space between them. Aziraphale can’t bear that, suddenly, and he unknots his fingers to offer a hand to Crowley. Crowley gives him a tentative smile and takes it, caressing Aziraphale’s hand with gentle fingers. Aziraphale scoots closer so he’s pressed up against Crowley’s side.

“In my defense, I really did get the idea of talking to them from the radio,” Crowley says. “I never thought about it like… that. But yeah. What you said. But that’s—angel, that’s not how I think about you. That’s never how I thought about you.”

“You say that, but how many times are you willing to forgive me?” Aziraphale whispers. “I’m really not perfect. Please don’t lie and say that I am.”

Crowley squeezes his hand. “Fine, you’re not perfect. Neither am I. How many times have I pissed you off? How many times are you willing to forgive me?”

Aziraphale doesn’t know how to answer that, because there’s nothing Crowley has ever done that needs forgiving. Certainly nothing worse than the things Aziraphale has done, in any case.

He realizes that Crowley’s hands are trembling in his. “Azira—”

“I’ll always forgive you,” Aziraphale says. He shifts, immediately feeling the loss once they’re no longer pressed side-to-side, but he wants Crowley to see the truth in his eyes when he repeats, “Always.”

“Yeah?” Crowley says. His hands are still shaking but he’s smiling a little, now. “Not having second thoughts?”

“No,” Aziraphale says. “I just can’t think of anything that needs forgiving.”

“I could name a few. Taking out my complicated feelings vis-à-vis Falling on my plants and causing you to have a breakdown, for starters.” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale’s hand, still held between both of his own, before Aziraphale can reply. “But the same goes for you, yeah? There’s nothing for me to forgive. There’s nothing you could do that I wouldn’t forgive.”

Crowley looks at him, so earnest and in love, and it takes Aziraphale’s breath away. He can’t believe it sometimes, how Crowley is capable of such aching sweetness. How stubbornly it endures, despite everything.

Aziraphale brings his other hand in to curl around Crowley’s. He lifts their hands up between them and presses a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles.

Crowley makes a soft noise in his throat.

“Heaven did so wrong by you,” Aziraphale says.

“Heaven never deserved _you_ ,” Crowley retorts. His fingers dig gently into Aziraphale. “But fuck Heaven, anyway. We’re better off without them.”

It’s true, Aziraphale knows it’s true, but he still recoils instinctively at the thought, even months after his unofficial resignation. Heaven wasn’t just _head office_ , Heaven was _family_. And they were supposed to be Good, they were supposed to be Right, and Aziraphale was supposed to be Good and Right, too. He _had_ to be.

He shudders. He doesn’t have to be what Heaven wants him to be. Neither of them have to be anything but themselves, anymore.

Aziraphale pats the back of Crowley’s hand. “Well, if that’s true, then you don’t need to reenact Heaven in your plant room anymore, wouldn’t you agree?”

Crowley pouts. “But it’s been working so well for the past half century. My plants could win awards if I bothered with that sort of thing.”

“Dear…”

“Yeah, all right,” Crowley sighs. “But if they all wilt and die, that’s not my fault.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Aziraphale says. “Thank you.”

Crowley tips his head down and nuzzles his cheek against Aziraphale’s collar. Aziraphale separates their hands so he can put one to use stroking Crowley’s hair.

They sit quietly, comfortably. Aziraphale’s gaze travels idly around the room. Eventually it lands on Crowley’s bookcase, taking in the rows of neatly-arranged novels.

“What did you mean earlier,” Aziraphale says, “about how I keep my bookshop?”

Crowley groans emphatically, pulling away to sit upright and level an accusing glare at Aziraphale. “It’s a mess! And I know you shelve your books completely randomly so customers have a hard time finding what they want, but it still makes me itch like mad.” He throws his hands up and flops dramatically back against the couch cushions. “No rhyme! No reason!”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches. “Well, as you know, I can recall perfectly where everything is, so why would I need a system?”

“Because it’s satisfying,” Crowley says. “It can still be completely useless for humans. Sort them by the third letter of the author’s first name if you must, just give me something, angel.”

Aziraphale allows the smile to take over his face. “If you feel so passionately about it, I suppose you can help me reshelve.”

Crowley straightens up and gapes at him. “Wait, seriously? You know I’ve literally been waiting to hear you say that for two hundred years.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “That is, if you apologize to your plants for how you’ve treated them, and promise to be kinder.”

Crowley’s face twists. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Right now?”

“No time like the present, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Mmmnnnghhh,” Crowley says. “Okay.”

Crowley leads the way. They’ve barely set foot in the plant room when the foliage starts to tremble and sour fear permeates Aziraphale’s senses.

Crowley stands in the center of the room for a long time without saying anything. Aziraphale remains quietly next to him. The plants shiver in fearful anticipation, and their dread grows in Aziraphale. He feels sympathy for them and Crowley both. What must Crowley be thinking as sweeps his gaze slowly over the trembling plants, conscious for the first time of what his gardening ritual represents?

Crowley lingers for a long moment on the discarded pot on the floor, soil and a bit of root still clinging to its edges. Aziraphale has to suppress a shiver looking upon it.

Finally, Crowley moves, drifting to a plant in one of the room’s corners. It’s verdant and pristine to Aziraphale, but it seems to shake harder when Crowley approaches. He takes a leaf tenderly between his forefinger and thumb.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says, the words coming out tight and a little rushed. “I—oh, fuck,” he gasps.

Aziraphale hurries to his side. Crowley waves him off with one hand and wipes rapidly-falling tears away with the other.

“I’m sorry, I, shit—” The curse breaks away into a sob.

Crowley is still clutching the plant’s delicate leaf. Aziraphale carefully pries his juddering hand away, lest he tear it.

Crowley slings his arm over his eyes and tilts his head up to the ceiling, as if that will stop the tears. “I don’t want their forgiveness,” he mumbles.

“I know,” Aziraphale says, finding it too difficult to say much more. His heart is in his throat. His eyes sting.

“It wouldn’t mean anything to me,” Crowley says.

“I know.”

“But it still hurts.”

The tears spill out from Aziraphale’s eyes. “I know, love. It does hurt.”

Crowley turns and all but collapses into Aziraphale’s arms with a wail. Aziraphale clutches him close. For the third time today, sobs wrack his pathetic body.

But this time is different. This time, he’s not in a panic-haze state and trapped in memories of fear. This time, he’s firmly in the present, him in Crowley’s arms, Crowley in his arms. There’s a strange clarity to it, even as he’s crying uncontrollably into Crowley’s hair, his emotions all lined up and ordered.

Aziraphale aches, for himself and for Crowley. It’s not fair that Crowley should still hurt so terribly, a six-thousand year wound still festering. It’s not fair that Aziraphale wants forgiveness when he should want an apology; not fair that he wants an apology just so he can refuse it. It’s not fair that they both loathe Heaven but miss it, too.

It’s not fair, and it hurts. It will probably hurt for a long time yet; it will probably never stop hurting completely.

But, Aziraphale realizes, they’re going to be okay. Both of them, together.

Gradually their sobs subside. Aziraphale isn’t sure who stops first, only that when he begins to calm down, he can feel Crowley breathing more evenly—though still shaky—against him, too.

“Fuck,” Crowley says. He shudders and pulls back to wipe at his blotchy face with both hands. “Fuck. Okay. I’m done crying.”

Aziraphale tugs a handkerchief out of his pocket and pushes Crowley’s hands aside so he can gently dab his face dry. “Yes,” he says. “Me too.”

Crowley huffs a gentle laugh. “Well, we certainly got sidetracked. Uh, d’you still want lunch? We can order something in.”

Like the strange clarity during his last bout of tears, Aziraphale feels different now than he usually does after crying. He feels rubbed raw, yes, and worn, that’s not new. But instead of empty he feels… content, almost. At peace.

Aziraphale tucks his now-damp handkerchief away. “Actually, I think I’d much rather indulge in some cuddling right now.”

Yes, that’s what he wants right now, more than anything: to curl up under soft covers and snuggle with his favorite being in existence.

Crowley grins and pulls a new handkerchief into existence. “Yeah?” he says. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

Aziraphale stands still while Crowley dries his face. When he finishes, he cups Aziraphale’s cheek with his palm and just looks at him for a long moment.

“I love you, you know,” Crowley says. “So much. I love you because you’re you.”

“And I love you,” Aziraphale says. “No conditions. No exceptions.”

They both lean forward for a kiss. Behind the gentle press of lips, Aziraphale can feel the strength of their mutual love, warmer and truer than Heaven ever was.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3  
> / [tumblr](https://qorktrees.tumblr.com/)


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